


safe like the springtime

by aegisunmerge



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Golden Deer Route, M/M, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22377304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aegisunmerge/pseuds/aegisunmerge
Summary: Byleth takes care of the roses around Garreg Mach, and learns a little about the nature of hearts. Linhardt researches the long-lost Crest of Flames, and learns a little about himself.
Relationships: Linhardt von Hevring/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	1. short days, long nights

**Author's Note:**

> Title is borrowed from _Lucky Strike_ by Troye Sivan.
> 
> I’ve gone with a nonbinary male-presenting Byleth (they/them) because that’s my preference. Sorry if it’s not yours or if it makes things hard to read.
> 
> I’ve also taken a few creative liberties with plot events here and there simply because I can. Such as, do pastel green roses exist in Fodlan? If magic and crest beasts coexist, I think I can have naturally occurring roses of any colour.

Byleth has never been one to sit in idleness. 

The quiet normalness of academy life rests uneasy upon Byleth’s shoulders. It seems like a lifetime away but it was only a week ago — _maybe less, has time truly moved so fast?_ — when they were moving from place to place with Jeralt and the mercenary company. There was always something that needed doing, and never enough time or hands to get it done.

“Look, kid. You’re making me anxious just standing there.” Jeralt looks up from his desk, brows creasing in that way he gets when he’s at his wits end. Byleth leans back from where they’ve been lingering over their father’s shoulder.

“If you’re bored, you could try helping out around the monastery. Get your hands dirty, find something to keep yourself busy when you’re not preparing for classes.”

“I’m not bored.” 

Jeralt sighs. “Restless, then. How about picking up a hobby or two now that you’ve got the time?”

“I suppose.” Does fishing count as a hobby? Byleth wonders, thinking about the grilled fish they’d eaten for dinner so often, when it was their turn to prepare meals for the mercenary company.

For lack of a better idea, Byleth finds their steps wandering to the fishing pond. They’re lost in thought selecting a suitable fishing rod when they tense without realization. A mercenary’s instincts, hand moving to rest lightly on the sword at their hip. There’s the sound of scraping, wood and metal rattling noisily behind them. From their peripheral vision, they can see the groundskeeper with a wheelbarrow full of tools and materials for gardening.

_Perhaps I should…_

Byleth sets the fishing pole back down and gives a nod to the man in charge of the fishing pond, before following the groundskeeper. They fall in step behind the middle-aged woman, footfalls barely a whisper. 

***

“Do you enjoy this?” The book on Linhardt’s lap lies open underneath his hands, but his eyes flick towards the scattered foliage then to the sharp shears in Byleth’s hands.

“The groundskeeper asked for help.” They’ll need to sweep up the pruned canes and dead leaves when they’re done, Byleth thinks with a slight frown. Clipping the rose bushes left a bigger mess behind than they’d thought there would be for such a simple task.

Linhardt waves a hand, as if shooing away something disagreeable. “How exhausting. I could never force myself into doing something tedious for someone else.”

Another snip. Byleth lets the clipping fall to the ground, carrying the weight of their silence with it.

“We...” Byleth begins at last, dragging the words from their chest and placing them in front of Linhardt like an offering, like so many handfuls of pulverized eggshell and coffee grounds scattered around the bases of the rose bushes they’ve taken under his wing.

They set the garden shears down, sitting back on their heels. “...I never had the time before for any of this.”

Or the space, the inclination, or really, any number of reasons why a mercenary with an itinerant lifestyle might never have picked up horticulture. They’re not sure why they’ve taken to this, the laborious work caring for the rose bushes that dot the grounds of Garreg Mach.

 _“You know, your mother used to love those roses too,”_ they remember Jeralt saying one day when he found Byleth elbow deep in thorns. They’d nodded then, tucking the precious bit of knowledge away as one might do for a delicate piece of fine jewellery, but that’s not quite it.

It feels rewarding, Byleth decides, to care for something living and growing and beautiful. There is a comfort they never knew they needed, a pressure that builds to flutter in their chest at knowing that theirs are hands that can create.

It is many minutes before Linhardt responds. So long in fact, that Byleth thinks he’s fallen asleep already.

“Curious.” Linhardt’s expression is a curious thing in itself to Byleth. His gaze is unfocused, hazy even as he looks right through them. “But a thought for another time. Would you mind if I slept here, Professor? It’s the best time of the year for a nap outside.” 

From on top of the hedge, Sothis rests her chin in the curve of her palm. There’s a knowing smile on her lips, the look of someone better versed at navigating their heart than himself. Byleth works steadily as Linhardt dozes an arm’s length away in the sunshine, old growth discarded to coax forth new.

Sothis hums, a song meant only for their ears. Byleth wonders what has been revealed to her, this time.

***

It is the peak of the Garland Moon, and the sweet perfume of roses is heavy on the breeze as Linhardt sits in the gazebo across from Byleth. The warm, rainy season has taken its toll on the bloomed flowers, sending petals scattering but new buds peek forth from the greenery. Resilience in the face of adversity, or something like that, Linhardt thinks wryly.

“It seems your hard work has paid off, Professor. Have you given any thought to becoming a gardener after all of this is done?”

Byleth lets out a soft huff. “Not really. I might take up fishing though.”

Their expression is as difficult to read as ever but Linhardt thinks, for the briefest of moments, something like a smile flickers across Byleth’s lips.

When did he become so interested in being able to read those minute shifts in expressions, he wonders. Perhaps it’s the air of mystery that surrounds the former mercenary turned professor, or it could be the unknown crest they possess that has Professor Hanneman so puzzled. Or perhaps, more frighteningly yet, it’s something else entirely.

Linhardt focuses on the steam rising from the delicate tea cup in his hands, the peppery citrus scent of angelica working to calm nerves he didn’t realize needed settling. From across the tea table, Byleth is as inscrutable as ever. 

“You, dear Professor, are an ocean of mysteries. And yet, you offer me no answers.” 

A shrug, seemingly apologetic. Their gaze is fixed to the middle distance behind Linhardt, as if focusing on someone else. But there’s no one there, just the two of them and the blossoming roses all around.

“How unfair.” Linhardt says. Byleth merely raises a brow at the pout evident in his words, an unspoken invitation to continue and he seizes the opportunity with both hands. “Your crest, your past… Say, would you let me study you? I’m sure I could find out all sorts of things about the mysteries that surround you.”

“Not today.” Byleth shakes their head.

“But that’s not a _‘no’_.” Linhardt leans forward abruptly, the cups of tea and tray of sweets forgotten in his renewed enthusiasm. “How about tomorrow or the day after? Can we meet here, you and I?”

The sound of Byleth’s laughter ringing out in the garden is as precious to him as gold, more brilliant than any jewel.

***

Byleth gave him a pale green rosebud during the Garland Moon. 

The rose was a delicate thing with a colour reminiscent of the Archbishop Rhea’s hair, its delicate petals so unlike the wicked canes of the rose bushes from where it sprang forth. It’s this memory of all things that comes unbidden to Linhardt, as he hurries with Marianne past the hedges that grow proudly alongside the dormitory walls.

“Do you think they’ll leave the roses alone?” Linhardt asks. 

Marianne tilts her head to him, a silent question in her gentle eyes.

He thinks about the roses that have yet to bloom in the monastery gardens, slumbering buds and green growth crushed beneath heavy boot heels. Of all the books left in the library that he may never read now, of all the comfortable napping spots on the grassy lawns across the monastery grounds. Oh, to be one of the fish in the pond, swimming lazily in circles unaware of their fate to be eaten and of the world crumbling around them. 

He does not think about the fall, the cliff crumbling beneath booted feet, the wordless scream snatched away by the wind. Of what likely lies broken, _lifeless_ , bloodied at the bottom of the valley. Linhardt did not see it for himself and is most definitely not thinking about any of it, so his thoughts turn towards the rose gardens where they promised to meet again.

Linhardt shakes his head, as if the motion would scatter the thoughts that have lodged in his mind. “Never mind. It’s rather stupid to worry about flowers at a time like this, isn’t it.”

“Let’s press on,” Marianne says softly, as if making her way across a floor strewn with flowers. “We have to.”

_To survive, to make it through the darkness to see the light of dawn._

There is fear in the lines of her body but resolve in her eyes. Linhardt thinks that, if even with all her fear and sadness, she can find the strength to be here in this moment, perhaps he can find it in himself to go forth unafraid.


	2. interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t think it was ever mentioned one way or another so I’m going to headcanon that Linhardt’s mother died many years ago prior to the start of the game. Briefly mentioned, in case you’d like to be warned.
> 
> I know it’s called the Sublime Sword of the Creator (after plot events happen) but that’s Too Long so I’m just going to call it the Sword of the Creator. Please excuse this and some other minor inaccuracies for the sake of readability.

Byleth remembers little about the fall that should have killed them. Perhaps that is one of Sothis’ mysterious uncounted blessings, a mother’s gift of protection to her child. By all rights, they died that day, their body dashed to bloody pieces on the sharp rocks below the cliff that crumbled under their feet, the river rushing to carry them away. There is no rhyme or reason to Byleth’s survival this time, save for the will of the divine.

When they think back much later, they find they cannot put a memory to much of their time spent in that space both dead and alive. Instead, Byleth remembers dreaming of war, of spears that pierce the earth like so many lances upon a beast’s hide, of blood that rains like water upon the soil. They dreamt of swift winds beneath strong wings, of soaring through a star-studded sky. Byleth liked the flying better than falling.

They dreamed, and the flow of time passed them by.

There was singing, Byleth recalls, a familiar voice lifting in a lullaby to soothe them back into sleep during those few fleeting moments of consciousness. They can remember little more than that. But they remember the promise to meet again on the eve of a millennium, and the heart does not forget so easily even when the mind has been fractured. 

“I know your heart as though it were my own,” Sothis had said long ago, when they’d been trapped in the realm beyond. The darkness had been terrifying, but what scared them at that moment was losing her. Byleth had cried then, tears spilling hot and unbidden down their cheeks, even as they took the golden glow of Sothis’ divine light into their chest.

_I am Byleth, they who died and then returned._

Water laps around Byleth’s body, frigid. They blink brightness away and then shudder, breath catching in their lungs as they struggle to sit with limbs leaden and numb. It feels like ancient timbers creaking to life in their chest, like rust flaking from a sword long kept sheathed. It feels, if Byleth is going to be quite honest, like they haven’t breathed in years. 

Perhaps there’s more truth to that than jest, they think wryly as they heave their body to standing as a well-intentioned stranger hovers in mild panic around them. 

To be fair, it’s not every day a dead man with a sword floats downstream and then sits bolt upright. Byleth takes a long, slow look around as they move from sitting, to standing with the Sword of the Creator in hand. The buildings, though long turned to rubble and looted down to the bare walls, resemble those in the village surrounding the monastery. There is no doubt in their mind, where they need to be.

Byleth walks, then runs. They take the steps up the Goddess Tower two at a time, only slowing their pace when they catch sight of the doorway at the top of the staircase. In the distant sky behind a young man who must surely be Claude, a wyvern soars through the sky, pearl-white wings glimmering in the sky as dawn breaks over the stark walls of Garreg Mach.

Claude turns from the window at the sound of footsteps approaching. He startles, eyes widening in disbelief before a short laugh breaks free.

“Hey, Teach.” Claude smiles at Byleth, as easily as ever. As if the years that passed had been but a single day. “Pretty rude to keep a fella waiting like that, wouldn’t you say?”

Byleth stops mid-step. Emotions never came easily to them—or at all—before Sothis gifted the entirety of her blessing to them. But this lightness in their chest and the feeling of weight dropping from their shoulders? This feels like a sort of happiness.

“What’s with that look?” Claude looks taken aback. From one friend to another, he claps a hand to Byleth’s shoulder. His grip feels solid, real. This is no dream. “You didn’t really think I’d given up on you coming back, did you?”

“I knew. Somehow.” Byleth’s voice sounds strange to their ears, forgotten with disuse. They let out a huff, the corners of their mouth tugged upwards into a small smile.

“I knew you would come.”

***

There is something that no amount of book learning will teach you, Linhardt finds, and it is learning to live with some non-essential part of yourself missing. Nothing so important as a heart or a lung, the loss of which would surely kill someone. But instead, an absence that leaves one reaching out for empty air, the hale and healthy half compensating for the whole. 

Is it possible to miss someone you’ve never really known? Linhardt barely remembers his mother, but he can piece together enough of his own fragmented memories and the stories he’s been told to keep her alive in his heart. A kind and sleepy woman, the outline of someone he should miss but can’t remember well enough to. 

But _oh_ , Goddess take him for a fool, Linhardt remembers Byleth in all the little things he does after his unceremonious return to Hevring from Garreg Mach. It’s the way the manor seems a little too loud and a little too quiet, the fabric of Linhardt’s day-to-day existence chafing against him not unlike the way his uniform used to tug against his arms if he leaned forward a little too fast.

He doesn’t have to wear a uniform now. Or go to class. Or really, do any of those things he’s spent most of his school life running away from. If Linhardt ignores the insistent whispers of war at his doorstep, it’s almost as if the last year has been a distant dream. There’s only him, the endless empty hours of his days spent in laziness, and his thoughts circling like the shorebirds drifting aimlessly with the wind under their wings.

There’s a weight in his chest that aches when he thinks too hard about why it might be. It feels entirely too much like caring.

The book in Linhardt’s hands is one he rescued from the monastery before its fall to the Empire’s armies, a heavy and dense tome likely older than his father’s father. And despite its probable historical value, he finds a pressed rosebud between its pages. 

The flower between his fingertips is almost paper thin. Its fragile green petals are nearly translucent when he holds it up carefully to the light. Linhardt remembers the monastery’s rose gardens during the Garland Moon, taking tea with Byleth as the summer rain drummed a steady beat against the eaves and windows. He remembers a promise made with the heady bloom of youthful success, a promise to meet again on the eve of a certain millennium.

“How much time…” Linhardt mutters, the book in his hands abandoned for the moment. 

There’s no certainty in this wild idea, no logical reasoning to the hows and whys. It goes against everything he insists that he dislikes. It is also an incredible amount of work. And yet, his traitorous, foolish heart quickens at the thought.

Just under two weeks, if he sets out on horseback before dawn. If the weather holds, if Linhardt doesn’t end up wandering hopelessly lost, or find himself detained or really, any number of scenarios that could happen to the heir of a noble house fleeing the Adrestian Empire in a season of warfare. Give or take a day, this wild idea of running from Hevring will bring him back to the monastery on time. 

Oh, how the ache in Linhardt’s chest lightens when he chances a look over his shoulder back at the manor. He turns his attention back to his horse, drawing his cloak up over his head with one hand. This newfound feeling of caring, the emotion taking root and starting to bloom in his chest like the roses.

It feels right.


End file.
